


Let Me See the Light

by ama



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Canon Jewish Character, Christmas, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hanukkah, Holocaust, Hurt/Comfort, Interfaith, Jewish Holidays, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queer Themes, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: Babe struggles around Christmas time. Liebgott struggles... a lot. They find comfort in each other and in a holiday about endurance, faith, and lights in the darkness.





	Let Me See the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Shine," by the Maccabeats, which is one of my favorite Chanukah songs of all time. This fic is a WIP, which I am notoriously bad at--there are two more chapters, which I will try to post in the next eight days, although I may take advantage of the fact that this is, technically, a Chrismukkah fic, and make December 25th my hard deadline. We'll see.

Babe feels like he’s dragging himself through winter, the way he has to drag his feet in their heavy boots through the black-speckled slush that fills the streets. He shivers constantly, even though he wears a scarf, a hat, gloves, and two pairs of wool socks. It doesn’t matter what he does or how he feels, the moment the sun sinks below the horizon at four-fucking-thirty, his energy is sapped away.

“Hey, at least it’s not Bastogne,” Bill shrugs, and Babe can’t say anything to that because… well, he’s right. It’s not Bastogne.

Joe doesn’t comment, but Babe knows he notices. He starts draping a spare blanket over the couch so he can pull it down when they’re sitting together and casually wrap it around Babe’s shoulders, and sometimes when they’re necking Babe notices that Joe seems to be paying attention to his hands. He’ll take hold of Babe’s hands and place them on his own cheeks, holding them there until they stop shaking, or guide Babe’s arms around his neck so he can seek out the warmth that hides in the divot of his back, the ridge of his hips.

He would have thought it would embarrass him, Joe noticing, but actually he doesn’t mind. It makes him feel good, even.

Christmas makes it worse. Babe knows this by now. He’s lived through two peacetime Christmases, and both of them have made him feel phony as hell. Because that’s when he really starts thinking about Bastogne, about Julian and Muck and Penkala, about Bill and Buck and Joe Toye… and it’s hard to pretend he isn’t thinking about them. But he has to, because everyone around him is happier than usual, and that just makes him feel more like a phony. As the holiday approaches, he starts going to Joe’s house almost every night. Sometimes he lies and tell his parents he’s going to see Ralph or Bill, and sometimes he does, but usually he goes to Joe. His house doesn’t have any Christmas decorations, and he never complains about cooking dinner for two.

Things come to a head on Christmas Eve. The Heffrons have a big holiday meal, with all of Babe’s cousins and in-laws, so many people they can barely fit in the house, and then they all go out to midnight mass. The night is cold and dark, and the occasional candle in a window isn’t enough to drive away the feeling of foreboding in Babe’s stomach.

He sits and listens to the children’s choir, the opening prayers, the nativity play. He starts to shiver during the priest’s remarks, and then the women’s choir stands and begins to sing, and he knows that he has to go. It’s a different song, but the voices are the same. He’s in Rachamps again, and he needs to get out of here.

Thankfully, he’s sitting almost near the end of the pew, except for his mother. He stands and sidles past her.

“Ma, I gotta go,” he whispers. “I’ll be back late—don’t wait up for me.”

“Where are you going?” she asks in a bewildered voice.

“I’ve gotta—I’ve just gotta go, I’m sorry.”

He leaves through the nearest exit and lights a cigarette as soon as the door shuts for a minute he stands there, gulping in deep lungfuls of piercing cold air and cigarette smoke. After a while, his breathing regulates itself. He calms down. He remembers the first time he realized he was falling for Joe Liebgott, on a night a lot like this one. Rachamps, huddled in the doorway of a convent’s chapel, passing a smoke back and forth as the nuns’ singing filtered out through cracks in the window.

Without thinking about it, Babe’s feet start trudging a path towards Liebgott’s building. It’s a far walk, with nary a cab in sight, and his knuckles are already red and cracked when he knocks on Joe’s door. There’s no answer, and he has to knock twice more before he hears footsteps and Joe’s incensed voice.

“All right, all  _ right _ , what in God’s name—” He wrenches the door open and squints into the darkness. The porch light is out. “Babe?” He opens the door wider so the light from the hall spills out and rests one arm against the doorframe. “Jesus Christ, you know what time it is?”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Babe says with a shiver. “I was at midnight mass.”

Joe’s eyes are dark and shrewd as they take in his appearance. Babe knows his cheeks must be a deep pink, and his hat is pulled down right over his ears. He doesn’t know what else Joe might see, but he has a feeling it’s not good.

“You all right?” Joe asks. There’s an almost imperceptible shift in his voice, from annoyance to concern.

“Yeah.” Babe shivers again. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah. Fuck, of course, yeah.” He steps back and lets Babe into the house. “You, uh—you want something? Beer, water, coffee…?”

“No,” Babe says distractedly as he strips off his outerwear. “No, I’m not—I don’t—I ain’t here to be entertained or nothing. I just—can I stay over tonight?”

“’Course,” Joe says, still befuddled. “Are you sure you want to? It’s Christmas Eve. Christmas Day by now.”

“I know. I know, but I—”

It’s warmer in Joe’s house than it was outside but Babe feels like he’s shaking worse. Like his teeth are chattering and he can’t get words past them. Instead he walks up to Joe and kisses him.

He cups Joe’s cheeks in his hands and can feel the warmth from where his face was pressed against the pillow. He smells like sleep and clean sheets, and Babe wants to melt into him and let everything else slip away. It’s almost ironic that Joe Liebgott, with all his firecracker energy, can calm him down the most, but Joe has the remarkable ability to take everything in stride. The kind of thing Babe worries over, Joe meets with a shrug. He doesn’t challenge Babe when he can’t explain something right, and he doesn’t ask too many questions.

When they separate, Babe rests his head against Joe’s chest and closes his eyes. Joe kisses the top of his head and they just stand there for a minute, leaning against each other in the hallway.

“They kept talking about how Christmas is about being grateful,” Babe says finally, mumbling the words against Joe’s chest. “Being grateful you’ve got family and a home and material goods and shit. And all I could think is that this is about when I lost Julian and I’d promised him I would get his stuff. And I couldn’t do nothing for him. Then Bill and Toye getting hit. And losing Buck, and Skip and Penkala and everybody. And I can’t—this is supposed to be the happiest time of the year, right? I should be grateful. I’m fucking alive, aren’t I, but I can’t stand this time of year and I don’t think I can fake it anymore.”

“Honestly, Babe?” Joe yawns. “This is such a goyische problem.”

It’s such an unexpected response that Babe actually laughs.

“What?”

“I don’t mean losing people. That’s shitty. But this whole feeling bad because it’s Christmas. This is what happens when you don’t have enough holidays. You make each one a big deal, and it gets bigger and bigger and you feel like shit when you can’t keep up with it. You don’t have to like this time of year if you don’t. You don’t have to pretend to feel grateful when you don’t. Do what you have to do—check mass of the list, check presents off, and you’re done. That’s what Jews do.”

“I guess that’s smart.”

“I’m sorry.” Joe yawns again. “You want to talk about it some more? I can be nicer.”

“Nah, not really.” Babe burrows his face into the soft fabric of Joe’s t-shirt. “This is good enough.”

“Okay. How about doing this lying down, huh?”

“Okay.”

Joe lives in a tiny two-story rowhouse on the far side of Broad Street. On the first floor, the hallway divides the kitchen from the living room, and his bedroom, a bathroom, and a small spare room are on the second floor. It’s less than half the size of the tall brick building where Babe lives with his parents (in the attic, which is warm in the winter and gives him some semblance of privacy), but Babe loves it.

He climbs up the staircase and immediately strips and starts digging through Joe’s clothes. He has his own drawer, but he’s never gotten around to bringing pajamas. Hell, half the time he’s here, he goes to sleep naked, and the other half, he likes wearing Joe’s things. Tonight he puts on a pair of striped pajama pants that pool over his feet, and a maroon sweater. Joe frowns when at the sweater.

“You still cold?”

Babe shrugs.

“Hey, isn’t there a Jewish holiday coming up?” he asks as he climbs into bed.

“Yeah, uh, I think Hanukkah starts in a couple of days. Sometimes it’s before Christmas, sometimes after.”

“That’s the one with the candles, right?”

“They all have candles, Babe.”

“But it’s the one with the…” He splays his fingers to indicate the many-branched candelabrum he sees in half a dozen houses up and down Front Street every year.

“Menorah. Yeah. Hanukkah’s got more candles than usual.”

“Are you doing anything for that?”

“Like what?” Liebgott asks. He turns the bedside lamp off and settles beside Babe. They’re not quite touching, although Joe’s arm is draped on the pillow above Babe’s head.

“I don’t know, whatever you do for Hanukkah. Lighting candles.”

“Nah. I don’t have a menorah.”

“I bet we could find one somewhere. I’ve got this neighbor, Mr. Iskowitz—”

“I don’t think so. It’s not a big holiday.” Joe kisses him on the forehead. “G’night, Babe.”

“Night.”

Babe’s eyes drift shut. He likes this sweater; it’s heavy and soft, not too scratchy. But he finds himself shifting closer to Liebgott still, to where the warmth had built up between his body and the sheets. His mind wanders, and he wonders if his parents are back from mass yet, and if they’ll be waiting up for him even though he told them not to.

“Hey Joe?” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“You ever go to synagogue?”

“What, lately?”

“Yeah. In Philly.”

“Not really.”

“There’s one between here and my parents’ place, you know. And a couple up by Society Hill I think—”

“Babe,” Joe says in a warning kind of voice.

They don’t talk about this much. Joe talks about his family sometimes—usually in response to someone else’s stories—but he doesn’t like to talk about religious stuff, and Babe doesn’t like to pry. It seems ungrateful, because Joe always listens to what Babe wants to say without complaint, and that should be enough.

“Sorry,” he says softly. Joe’s body shifts, and he shakes his head.

“Forget it. Come here.”

His arm curls closer. They kiss—a slow, lingering kiss, and by the time it’s over, they’re so close that they’re sharing the same pillow and their knees are knocking together. Babe rolls from his side to his back. They fit together better like this, with Babe’s head turned to face Joe and Joe’s arms resting lighting across Babe’s waist and over his head. In the morning they’ll be hot and pulling away from each other, but for right now it’s perfect.

—

Babe wakes first. Christmas morning. The house is peaceful and he isn’t in a rush to leave, but he thinks of his parents and his siblings and guilt swells in his stomach. He’s overheating, too; he gets out of bed and swaps the maroon sweater for his undershirt. Joe is still asleep. His limbs are pointing in four different directions, his hair is a mess, and his mouth is open. Babe laughs to himself and wishes, not for the first time, that he had a camera. It’s a stupid thing to spend film on, but it might be worth it just for the look on Joe’s face.

He tucks a lock of Joe’s hair behind his ear so he looks just a bit more dignified, and kisses him on the cheek. Joe makes a “huh?” sound that indicates he’s on the brink of wakefulness but not quite there yet, and Babe goes down to the kitchen to put on some coffee.

Bright sunlight is already filtering into the house, and he squints as he maneuvers around the furniture. He fills the coffee pot and turns it on, moving on autopilot, and then he bends over the kitchen counter, resting his head on his folded arms. His eyes drift closed as the coffee starts to percolate.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when suddenly there are hands on his hips. He jumps, but then he recognizes Joe’s touch and he grins to himself. He didn’t even hear the steps creak. One hand rubs up his spine, pushing his shirt aside.

“I don’t have time.”

“Time for what?” Joe asks. The words are innocent but his voice isn’t. He’s standing so close that when Babe stands up all the way he’s leaning against his chest. Joe’s hand moves around to his front and slips beneath the sweater to scratch at the trail of hair above his waistband.

“I really don’t,” Babe yawns. “I’ve got to get home. I left in the middle of mass—my parents will be worried.”

“Fine,” Joe sighs. “Got time for breakfast?”

“Not really. Gonna have some coffee, though.”

“All right.”

Babe pours himself a cup and then another for Joe, and Joe leans next to him on the counter as they drink it.

“Sleep okay?” Joe asks.

“Yeah, pretty good.”

“Good. listen, I uh.” He takes a sip from his mug. “I got you something for Christmas.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I know you’ve been feeling down lately, and uh. Last night you said you don’t like this time of year, so if you don’t want it now, we can just forget it.”

“No,” Babe says eagerly, setting his mug on the counter. “No, I’ll take it now. What is it?”

“Well, I didn’t wrap it or anything. It’s…” He digs into the pocket of his pajamas and holds out a key. “It’s for the front door,” he explains. “This way if I’m home you don’t have to go banging on the door. I’m kidding. But, you know, you’re here so often, and you shouldn’t have to wait outside. This way you can come in and wait in the living room. Or do whatever you want. Take a nap, take a shower, jerk off, I don’t care. But I’ve figured we’ve been together for a while, and… I like having you around here.”

Babe reaches up slowly and takes the key. Joe puts his hand back in his pocket, and they just stand there silently for a moment as Babe tries to figure out why his heart is racing so fast. It’s not really a big deal.

Then he actually stops and thinks—does he have the key to anyone else’s place? He doesn’t think so. He hardly ever has to knock at Bill and Fran’s, because there are a million people in and out all day and the door is often unlocked, but he doesn’t have a key. He  _ had _ one for Ralph’s place when Ralph was going out of town and needed someone to take in the paper and feed his cat, but he’d given that back. No, the only other place he has a key to is his parent’s house. Home.

“What if…” He clears his throat and closes his fist. “What if I wanted to jerk off  _ in _ the shower?”

“Absolutely not,” Joe says seriously. “Unless I get to help.”

“How about right now?”

“I thought you didn’t have time.”

“I could make time.”

“You want to go out on the porch so you can try out the key and get the full experience?”

“Fuck you,” Babe laughs, and he sets the key on the counter and rushes up the stairs, Liebgott on his heels.

—

Two days later, Babe gets home from work and is told by his mother that she took a phone message from Joe, asking him to come over in the evening. His mother probes for details; in all Babe’s life, Joe is the friend she knows the least about. She always has questions about him, and Babe is always dodging them. This time he really doesn’t know the answers, and he treks out in the snow a little earlier than usual because he’s curious, too.

Out of habit, he knocks on the door, but when there is no immediate answer he remembers his key. He hesitates for only a moment before unlocking the door and entering the house. He calls up the stairs and pokes around in the living room, just in case Joe was home and didn’t hear him knocking. When this gets no response, he shrugs his coat off and hangs it on the coat rack.

He’s sitting on the couch when the door opens, and he jumps up guiltily and goes to stand in the doorframe. Joe is just entering, and he seems taken aback when he sees Babe, but then a wide grin spreads over his face.

“Key works?”

“Yeah, key works. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been running all over the city,” Joe says. He’s carrying two paper bags, and he sets them both on the kitchen table and breathes onto his hands. “Shit, it’s cold. Well, listen, I was thinking—you need a new holiday.”

“I need a what?”

“Winter’s too fucking long here. It starts in October and it doesn’t end til April. It’s cold and dark and miserable, and Christmas ain’t helping no more, so you need a new holiday. Luckily, you’ve got me, and I’ve got Hanukkah. So this afternoon I went to the synagogue you mentioned and bought a menorah, only they were out of candles. They’re a weird size, Hanukkah candles, so I couldn’t just go to the store. I went up to Society Hill first, and  _ both _ the synagogues I tried were out of them, too, so they sent me up past Central City. The things I do for you, huh?”

He’s chatting, moving around the kitchen as he talks—taking things out of the bag, poking his head in the fridge, opening and shutting drawers until he finds a box of matches. Babe doesn’t respond right away, and that’s when Joe looks at him. His shoulder twitches in a nervous shrug, and Babe smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. He gets up and crosses to the kitchen to kiss Joe on the cheek. “The things you do.”

Joe picks up the candelabra. It looks delicate; the slim silver branches join together at the top to form a straight horizontal line embellished with little curls.

“This is a menorah,” Joe says. “The story is, there used to be one of these in the Temple in Jerusalem, except it only had seven branches. A couple thousand years ago, the Greeks conquered Jerusalem and outlawed a bunch of Jewish stuff, and sacrificed pigs in the Temple and shit so it was unclean. There was a priest named Judah Maccabee who started a rebellion with his brothers, and they beat Antiochus—he was the Greek king—and took the Temple back. The menorah was supposed to burn all the time, but because the Greeks had trashed the place, they only had enough oil to burn for one night. Oh, back then they used oil instead of candles. It took them eight days to make new oil, and the miracle is that the oil they already had lasted all eight days. So that’s why Hanukkah lasts for eight nights. On the first night you light one candle, and each day you add another.”

“That one has nine spots, though,” Babe points out.

“Right. This middle one is for the shamash,” Joe says, tapping the middle branch, which is a little higher than the others. “You light the shamash first and then use it to light the other candles. Otherwise by the eighth night you’d definitely burn your fingers on the match,” he grins.

“Smart,” Babe laughs. “Did Hanukkah start today?”

“Turns out it started yesterday. Better late than never, though, right?”

“Sure. Is there a service or something you have to go to?”

“Not really,” Joe shrugs. He sets the menorah on the table and starts putting the candles in. “Most holidays have extra services, but Hanukkah’s not as important as some of the others. There’s some prayers added to the regular weekly one, but mostly it’s a holiday you celebrate at home. Ready?”

“Yeah.” Babe sits down at the kitchen table.

He’s not exactly sure what he’s ready for; when he and his family light candles, they go to the church and light the little tea lights quietly, maybe whispering a private prayer or two. It’s a different feeling sitting in Joe’s kitchen. He wonders if Joe prays in Hebrew or in English. He actually doesn’t know if he’d recognize Hebrew if he heard it.

Joe takes a deep breath before he picks up the matches and lights the first candle, the tallest one in the middle of the menorah.

“I haven’t done this much,” he admitted. “Usually my dad does it. I think I remember though…” He lights the other two candles and clears his throat. “Baruch atah HaShem, eloheinu melekh haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvosav vitzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Chanukah. Baruch atah HaShem, eloheinu melekh haolam, sheasa nisim l’avoteinu bayamim hahem bizman hazeh. Baruch atah HaShem, eloheinu melech haolam shehecheyanu vkiyamanu vehigianu lazman hazeh.”

The words are musical. Joe isn’t a musical guy and he sounds off-key, but he doesn’t stumble over the words or the tune as he chants them, and Babe can hear the weight of tradition in his voice. Joe sets the candle back into its spot and watches the flickering lights for a moment. Babe watches the reflection in his eyes.

Joe turns to look at him.

“Say amen,” he orders.

“Amen.”

“Mazel tov.” Joe bends down and kisses his cheek. “You just celebrated Hanukkah.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. There’s more we could do, if we wanted, but it was a long day and I’m fucking tired. Come back tomorrow for dinner and I’ll cook something, all right?”

Babe agrees, but he doesn’t go home right away. He’s already had dinner, and he sits with Joe as he eats the cheese steak he picked up on the way home. He asks more questions about Hanukkah, wanting to learn more about Joe’s family and feeling less self-conscious about it than usual. Joe answers readily enough, and at one point Joe sings another song. Apparently it translates to Rock of Ages in English, but it sounds very different than the hymn Babe knows.

He lingers for a little while after that, even though it’s getting late. The light given off by the three small candles seems to fill the whole room, and the night outside the kitchen window looks black and unforgiving. Wax has pooled on the bottom of the menorah by the time Babe stands.

“I gotta go,” he says reluctantly. “My parents will be waiting up for me.”

“Yeah.” Liebgott stands too and gives him a proper kiss, wrapping an arm around Babe’s waist. Babe melts against him and his resolve disappears. Joe pulls away grinning, like he can tell what he’s thinking. “Tomorrow. Food’s on the table at six o’clock.”

“Can I come back for the day after, too?”

“Wednesday’s poker night.”

“So? You can bring the menorah to Bill’s, and then I’ll stay over.”

“You think?” Joe asks skeptically.

“’Course you can. If Bill says anything, I’ll beat ’im up for you,” Babe grins. Joe rolls his eyes.

“I can take on Bill Guarnere.”

“Sure you can,” Babe laughs. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “I’ll bring it.”

He kisses the tip of Babe’s nose, and then sees him out the door into the night. ~~~~


End file.
